OWEN WATCH PARKINSON FROM across the cramped dining table, not the most ideal studying space but the table is rectangular and wide enough to hold their books. The air is thick with the lingering smell of the tea —chamomile for him, ginger basil for Parkinson— they'd shared earlier, empty mugs discarded and forgotten.

Two weeks into their tutoring sessions and so far, their interactions have been strictly confined to the academics. The jotter Parkinson had told Owen to get lay on the table within reach: crisp and brand new, he is eager to get to work but Parkinson adviced him to start small. As small as highlighting ten major information from World History he’s struggling in.

Parkinson is no-nonsense in a logical, professional way. No interest in breaking the barrier of academics Owen is trying to breach. As if sensing his desperation, a small ball of fur pads into the room: Cotton Candy, the cutest orange tabby kitten Owen had rescued over the summer, meows softly as she approached.

“Hey, little one,” Owen coos, reaching down and scoops her off the floor. He glance over at Parkinson whose eyes flickers in interest. “This is Cotton Candy. Want to say hi?”

To Owen’s surprise, Parkinson extends a hesitant hand. Cotton Candy sniffs it curiously before licking his finger. Like a ray of sunlight, a smile appears on Parkinson’s face. Genuine and fleeting but undeniably there. Owen’s breath catch in his throat at the sight.

“She likes you.” Owen says softly, not wanting to break the spell.

Parkinson strokes Cotton Candy’s fur gently, his usual stern expression softening. “Hello, CeeCee,” he murmurs then freezes, realizing what he’d said.

Butterfly flips in Owen’s stomach. “CeeCee? Why CeeCee?”

His ears reddens slightly. “First letter of her names.”

“I like it. It suits her.” 

Parkinson says nothing, scratching gently behind CeeCee’s ears. The nickname had slipped out unconsciously and Owen notices Parkinson struggling to either embrace it or retreat. Sensing an opportunity, Owen push ahead with small talk.

“So, Parkinson. What’s your favourite colour?” 

Parkinson doesn’t respond, his attention focused on CeeCee. His lack of speech doesn’t deter Owen.

“Mine’s red. Cliché, I know. It’s not because of my hair, though that’s a factor. It’s because of the heart. It’s a fantastic instrument. Hard to believe that something so priceless is behind a lot of things. That it can hold love, you know?"

“The heart isn’t responsible for feelings,” Parkinson says matter-of-factly, “It’s the brain.”

“You feel it in your heart.”

“The heart, like the brain, keeps you alive. Your body keeps you alive. They don’t care about your feelings," Park retorts, his tone clinical. "Why do you think that no matter how down you feel, you keep on living? It’s just your brain firing neurons. It’s how you receive things.”

His smile falters but he tries for a joke. “I’m receiving hostility.”

“It’s the truth. People like you believe the heart has nothing better to do than feel.”

Parkinson cradles CeeCee in his palm, sinking his fingers in her fur.

“Feelings is important. It’s what makes things worthwhile. It’s how you endure things.”

“No. How you endure things is by having tons of plans. By looking at the bigger picture, at the future. The future is the present that hasn’t happened yet.”

Despite Parkinson’s pessimistic approach to the subject, Owen can’t help but be thrilled at successfully engaging him in a conversation outside of their lesson.

“You’re cynical. I’m not surprised. I hear geniuses have a rigid outlook on life.”

Parkinson turns back to studying. 

“That didn’t tell me your favourite colour. What is it? What’s—”

“Green.”

“Really?”

“What?” frowning black eyes slides to him, “I can’t like green?”

Propping his elbows on the table, Owen shifts in his chair to try and look closer into those dark eyes. “I didn’t say that. It’s surprising is all. You look like a blue sort of guy.”

CeeCee meows in satisfaction, stealing Parkinson’s gaze away.

“Do you drink coffee? What’s your—”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Never at all?”

“Never at all. Coffee is a leisure drink. It’s easily addictive.”

“What do you drink then? Tea? Cocaine?”

At Parkinson’s sharpened glare, Owen straightens. “I was trying to be funny.”

The flash of anger in his eyes suggests he didn’t approve of Owen’s poor attempt at humour.

“If I offended you, I’m sorry.”

“Joking about addiction isn’t funny.”

“I wasn’t joking about addiction.” Owen calmly explains. “I didn't know what to say after the tea. Water sounded stupid. Juice more foolish. I take it you don’t drink alcohol.”

“I do not.”

“Right. Me too. Nor do I cocaine or any hard drugs.”

Parkinson gives the barest of nods and just like that, the topic is dropped and their tutoring continues. Dates is hard for Owen to remember and that’s what Parkinson says he should crack down hard on. That’ll be the start of memorization for him in his jotter. 

Pointedly staring at Parkinson notes, Owen asks, “Do you fail World History?” 

Parkinson gives him a look.

“I know you don’t fail but when studying for it, do you like it?”

“I study. I don’t dance to the subjects. You don’t have to like something to succeed in it.”

“Oof. Are you saying you don’t have a favourite subject?”

“Chemistry.”

“That’s cool. I’ll say mine’s—”

“P.E.”

Owen smiles. “Biology. I’m fascinated by life, you know?”

“You can be a biologist.”

“Nah. I’m not smart enough.” 

Silence but the scratching of Parkinson’s pen.

Owen laughs. “You couldn’t reassure me that I’m smart?”

“You’re sensible.”

CeeCee perks her head up when he laughs again. “Besides, I love basketball. It’s precious to me. Now, God forbid if that fails, I guess I can wing biology.”

“You should have a firm plan B. And a plan C. and a plan D. Plans, basically.” Parkinson advices, completely given up on writing with CeeCee nestled in his palm.

“What are yours?”

“Failure is never an option.”

At the assertion, something pinches Owen in his lungs.

“See?”

Flashing his phone on, Parkinson shows him his screen. In big, bold letters reads ‘FAILURE IS NEVER AN OPTION’ and underneath in small cursive is '𝓣𝓸 𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓵 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓮.'

The display sends a chill down Owen’s spine. He is overcome with the urge to hug Parkinson, ever more so at the boy’s earnest expression.

“You shouldn’t joke about death. If you fail, you can pick yourself up again.”

His response is a little sad. “I hope the world doesn’t take that away from you.”

“Take what?”

“Your dreaming,” Parkinson answers, his voice barely above a whisper.

Conversation lulls. CeeCee curls up on the table between them, purring in contentment. Owen studies Parkinson: him absently stroking CeeCee, his eyes distant. In this moment, Owen realized that beneath that aloof exterior, is a multifaceted person. 

He might not understand Parkinson but Owen doesn’t need to to promise his commitment in befriending his tutor. For he has witnessed a crack in his frigid personality, he is determined to see that burst of a smile again.